Harvesting- Chapter 2 (Onceler x Reader) “Like this, _______?”Harvesting- Chapter 2 (Onceler x Reader)2 years ago in Settings
“No, you dope! Like this!”
About a month had passed since I last met the Onceler. This infamous villain had been known for slaughtering of the trees for both profit and other personal gains. Since his arrival, he had made smiley-face pancakes, practically inhaled three packs of marshmallows, and was currently helping me to trim a truffula tree, all the while wearing my frilly, pink apron. He insisted on wearing it to help keep away, and I quote, the “creepy crawlies”. Isn’t he in his twenties?
I was standing behind him, hands firmly planted on my hips, coaching/scolding him through trimming a truffula tree by himself for the first time. I’ve never had a kid, but I think this is a lot how potty-training a toddler is.
When I first told him we were gonna do some small pruning, guess what toll he
Harvesting- Chapter 3 (Onceler x Reader) As you can guess, breakfast was very…awkward, to say the list. Pancakes were eaten in tense silence, the only sound being heard my rapid heart beat and Gracie licking her unmentionables. Every now and then, I’d steal a quick glance at Onceler, as if making sure his eyes hadn't changed while I wasn't looking.Harvesting- Chapter 3 (Onceler x Reader)2 years ago in Settings
It doesn't make any sense, I thought, grabbing the truffula syrup and pouring the murky liquid over my flapjacks. How could that sweet, innocent Onceler I’d come to know suddenly turn into…that? When he came to my farm, he was in tears...but which one of him was crying? The logical choice would be the shy, blue-eyed Onceler, seeing as that one seemed more in tune with his emotions (Maybe a little too in tune, if you catch my drift). And yet, I think the bolder, green-eyed version of him could have also been crying that night. But why...?
Harvesting (Onceler x Reader) Beep beep. Beep beep.Harvesting (Onceler x Reader)2 years ago in Settings
The melodious song of your alarm clock blared beside you, the mere volume of the sound shaking the nightstand. With squinted eyes, you fumbled around in the darkness for your glasses. You pushed them up the bridge of your nose and looked at the time. Six in the morning. Fan-flippin'-tastic.
Silencing the noisy device, you stood, running a hand through your messy (h/c) locks. I hadn’t intended to get up this early, especially on a Saturday, you thought to yourself, tired beyond belief.
For the past few weeks, you’d been working tirelessly to care for your truffula farm. These eerie-looking clouds have been floating by lately, and all of the neighboring farmers down south had been telling you tales of woe about their now-massacred truffula trees.
“Truffula tree killings? Who would do something like that?” You